


bright eyes and subtle variations of blue.

by robinbuckli



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/F, did i just write fluff? who am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 15:26:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinbuckli/pseuds/robinbuckli
Summary: a picture paints a thousand words.





	bright eyes and subtle variations of blue.

**Author's Note:**

> am i even capable of writing something under 2k words? i tried lol. sorry bout it. also it's 2 am and, as always, i did not edit this

It’s just a painting.

It’s a Christmas gift to her girlfriend’s mom, and Robin wonders if, next time they manage to get over to Nancy’s childhood home, the canvas will be stuffed into the attic or hung up on a wall. She honestly doesn’t know where you’d put a portrait of your child; it would be a bit creepy for someone else’s bedroom, a bit egocentric for Nancy’s own old room, and a little awkward anywhere else to just have it watching you.

Robin shakes her head. _Where they put it is their business_, she reminds herself. _First, you have to make the damn thing._

It’s the first gift she’s ever actually gotten the Wheeler’s, much less Karen. The previous years, she’d just tagged onto whatever Nancy picked out, knowing she wasn’t rich enough to get them anything they couldn’t get themselves, and not brave enough to try and go sentimental.

Until this year.

The Wheelers always support Nancy in everything she does, including dating an artist. Still, though they never actually outright say it, she just knows that Ted and Karen secretly hoped Nancy would get serious with someone who had a more stable income. She knows they're not really all that shallow about finances, and she's come to realize that it's more they just don't _get_ it. They don't understand art. They don't understand how to consume it, much less make it, and therefore, don't understand why someone _else_ would want to.

It's just a painting, but it's also a request for approval from the people who raised the woman she hopes to marry.

So, there she is, painting the Wheelers her reason for doing what she does. Nancy is the perfect model, as always, and is sitting in a chair by the window as the early morning light filters through. A slight breeze is allowed through the open window, and it lightly plays with Nancy’s hair, creating almost exactly the concept Robin wants to put on the canvas.

She picks up the pencil and starts to create a rough plan. She’d decided right away that the painting wasn’t going to be one of those stuffy old Founding Fathers’ type portraits. “Just because I use oil doesn’t mean I live in the 1800s,” she’d informed Nancy.

Her sketch is really just glorified scribbling. All it takes is a swipe of a pencil here or a circle there to plan out the entire background, little notes of where it’ll blend into the portrait itself and all. Initials with question marks or underlines allow her to play with different color schemes in her mind. To anyone else, it’s gibberish. To her, it’s already a work of art.

Robin's style is mostly just get a lot on the canvas and let it all smush together, and then wait for it to dry and see what needs more layers. She doesn't like stuffy museum art where it's all one dimensional and there to be looked at. Sure, she understands that some of the paintings are worth millions of billions of trillions of dollars and they have to preserve them, but she prefers her art a little more tactile, a little more interactive. She wants her brushstrokes to create waves on the canvas for hands to touch and fingers to trace. 

Nancy is patient as Robin mixes colors and matches shades, figuring out her final palette as she goes. She messily scribbles down ratios for certain shades she's never made before, but Robin was really never all about formality and perfection, so she doubts she'll ever actually go back to her notes. Slowly, she lays out literally every tube she owns on a folding table Nancy had found for $2 on Craigslist. Joining the paints are buckets of water and paint thinner, all her brushes, and even a couple extra canvases in case she decides she needs to start over.

It's just a painting, but it's also the most nerve wracking thing she's ever done. Except maybe asking out Nancy in the first place.

"You ready?" Nancy asks softly, seemingly realizing that there's isn't any more stalling Robin can do.

Robin shrugs. "Ready as I'll ever be."

The good thing about painting Nancy is that Nancy doesn't have to pose, unlike a lot of models. Robin knows her face better than she knows her own, and could probably sketch her blindfolded. She doesn't need Nancy's head angled a certain way to know exactly how her hair falls, and she doesn't need Nancy's eyes in front of her to match their color perfectly. It's more like she's moral support (which she desperately needs).

Robin begins with the background, picking up a palette and depositing bits of blue from just about every tube possible. Swirling them together, adding in a dash of white here or a streak of black there, she starts to build her base. Inspired by Nancy's eyes, of course, she slowly creates an almost mosaic type look. The dabs of paint reach all the way to the corners, and then some, and then she brings them in just over the lines she'd set for the edge of her face. 

Once she's fairly satisfied, knowing she'll probably go back and layer even more once it's dry, she moves on to Nancy herself. She blends the perfect skin tone (perfect meaning it's just a little too light, so the contours and shadowing don't end up too dark), and starts brushing haphazardly onto the canvas, a general base so that it's guaranteed no white is going to show.

It's just a painting, but, at the same time, it's inside jokes and childhood horror stories. She can't help but smile as she finishes her rough foundation, remembering a conversation they'd had their first summer.  It had started with Robin questioning Nancy's almost unhealthy obsession with sunscreen. She'd spend, like, twenty minutes rubbing into every single inch of her skin before they went out of the house. They must have gone through twenty tubes in a month. "You know that's, like, a lot?" Robin had asked.

"It's because I used to be pure white," Nancy had replied, rolling her eyes.

Robin swiped the tube from her and squeezed out a very normal amount. "Pretty sure you're still pure white. Race doesn't actually change, you know."

"No, but I was, like, _seriously_ white," Nancy said again. "Like, imagine the most Irish person ever. Then imagine that person never went outside. That was me. All the time."

"I want a picture," Robin demanded.

"I looked like a freakin' ghost," Nancy complained. "My school picture overexposed me, and it was like I wasn't even there."

"What a hard life," Robin had said. 

Nancy stole the sunscreen back with a pout and finished, "So, sunscreen. A lot of it. It's taken a lot of dedication to build this almost non-existent tan. I'm not gonna let one sunburn throw that all away."

"Of course not," Robin had agreed.  She never did end up getting to see the picture, but every summer she knows to buy almost five times the amount of sunscreen any normal person would wear, and then a little bit for herself as well.

"What?" Nancy eyes her silent laugh as she finishes a vague Nancy shape in the foundational skin tone.

Robin just shakes her head. "Nothing. Just thinking about how pale you are."

"Hey!" Nancy complains. "I'm..." she struggles for a few seconds. Then, "Tan?"

Robin picks up the white and swipes where she wants the eyes. Her brush then gets loaded with her favorite blue, and she marks out two spots where Nancy's pupils are going to be. From there, she returns to the original skin color and mixes about ten different shades. Lighter ones for highlights, pink toned ones for a blush, blue toned, and orange toned, shadowed ones for building shape. She fishes out a smaller brush from her collection, dumps her big one in a bucket of paint thinner, and gets to work.

It's just a painting, but it's also a culmination of years of refining her work specifically surrounding Nancy. She'd done an exercise a couple years ago where she'd actually wanted to try and paint Nancy blind. She always said she could, so she figured she'd go ahead and try and do it for real. It was messy, for both of them, as Robin's hands drifted from her canvas to Nancy's face, slowly depositing paint just about everywhere.

Still, she now knows Nancy's face like the back of her hand. She fills her brush head with shadows and follows the lines of Nancy's jaw, remembering the way her skin had felt under her fingertips like it was yesterday. Pronounced, but not masculine, rounded and soft, but distinct. Robin paints Nancy's jaw the way it feels to curl up under it. She paints how it feels for her lips to press soft kisses on her way to her neck. She paints how to felt to hold Nancy for the first time.

It's just a painting, but it's also memories she cherishes far too much to ever speak out loud.

It had been their first date. Robin had just gone for it, knowing that you don't wait around and play it safe with a girl like Nancy. So, when Nancy had come in for her usual morning cup before work, Robin handed her a napkin with a number and her coffee. She honestly hadn't expected to hear from her, since she wasn't completely sure the boy she was with wasn't a significant other, but, that evening, she'd picked up her phone and answered a call from an unknown number.  


"Hey, it's Nancy," the voice had said.

"From Red Berry?" she'd asked, almost holding her breath.

"Are you giving your number to a lot of other girls named Nancy?"

Robin exhaled with a laugh that washed all of her anxieties away. "No, no I'm not. I'm just surprised and excited and... happy. I'm happy you called."

"Well, that makes two of us," Nancy had said. A pause. Then, "So, where are we going?"

"It's surprise," Robin had said, which was code for, _I have no idea, I'm going to discuss it with my best friend and plan it the day of. _"What are you up to tomorrow?"

"A little eager, huh?" Nancy teased.

Robin just smirked. "For a girl like you? Shamelessly." She did a little victory pump when she was greeted with silence on the other end, sincerely hoping Nancy was impressed with her boldness, and not weirded out. "So, tomorrow? I'll pick you up at seven?"

"You don't have a car," Nancy said, almost accusatorially. 

Robin let out a chuckle. "What are you, my stalker?"

"No, seriously," Nancy said. "How are you going to pick me up without knowing my address or having a vehicle?"

It's a fair point. Robin _wants_ to be a stud, but all she has is a stupid bike. Meanwhile, Steven "I haven't had a date since my junior year of high school" Harrington has one of the nicest cars she's ever seen. She shakes her head. _Focus._ "How about I meet you somewhere? Red Berry Coffee? For old time's sake, of course."  


"That sounds good," Nancy had said. Robin detected a hint of a smile in her voice. "I'll see you then."

And she did. Coasting up to her place of work, her happiness over not having to clock in pretty much outweighed any nerves that she had going on. She swung her right leg of the seat of her bike, and hopped off as she approached the racks and the girl she'd been waiting for. "I'm late?" she said, half apologizing.

Nancy shook her head. "I'm just early."

And so began the evening that she has long since forgotten. It doesn't matter what they did, it matters how she felt. It had been almost scary how comfortable they were together. There were the usual first date jitters, of course, an awkward brush of hands, eye contact that held on for just a little too long, but their conversation started, and it just wouldn't stop. Robin realized halfway through that Nancy was seeing her candid and uninhibited, not because she'd meant to, but because she'd forgotten to play it cool or play herself differently. 

So, no, Robin can't recall the things they ate or the streets where they walked or the shops that they'd poked around in. What she can remember is the twinkle in Nancy's eyes, the shaking of her hands, and the flutter of her heart when they ended up face to face, no more than a foot apart. Robin had carefully brushed Nancy's hair back behind her ear, a horribly cheesy move, but one that lifted a slight flush to Nancy's cheeks. 

Her index finger twisted once around a lock of hair, and then lead the rest of her hand down the side of her face to cup her jaw. She knew her hands were shaking. She knew that Nancy knew it. She knew she didn't really care. What kind of girl in their right mind _wouldn't_ be nervous in her position? Her other hand brought itself up to the other side, and then she was just holding Nancy, whose hands had already found themselves around Robin's waist.

Right as she leaned in, feeling the curve of Nancy's jaw follow her gaze, Nancy had whispered, "I don't kiss on the first date."

A real mood killer, that's for sure, but Robin was nothing if not an improviser, so she'd just said, "Who mentioned kissing?" and brought their foreheads together.

It's just a painting, but it's feelings that fly too fast for her to put anywhere but on a canvas.

Robin's brush falters at the end of her stroke, but she shakes it off and blends in some blue to her shadowing. She follows the side of Nancy's face, the slight indent where her eyes sit, and swipes a few strokes to produce Nancy's nose. She resists the urge to paint it red, an almost comical color that Nancy finds herself sporting every time she gets her annual cold. They're not really sure what it is about October, but, for the last eleven years, Nancy claims she's gotten sick on the same week of the month. 

Robin's not totally convinced that it's been the exact same week, but, sure enough, every October, she's found herself nursing a Nancy cold for a few days. The first day, it was always just a hint of what's to come. Nancy would cough a little, complain of an itchy throat, or maybe sneeze once or twice. Still, she'd be adamant she was _not_ sick. Not that year. The second day, whatever symptoms she'd had the day before would be just a little stronger, and Nancy would start preparing for a few days off. 

Robin would spend the third and fourth day bringing her her favorite soup (minestrone), her favorite Gatorade (yellow, duh), her favorite tea (ginger, ground from fresh ginger root and sweetened with a dash of honey from Robin's mom's bees), and her favorite sick person snack (goldfish). Robin never really understood the last one, but Nancy would just shrug and say, with a stuffed nose, "It's da snack dat smiles back, Robuh. It's cheerful."

The fifth day, Nancy would be on the road to recovery, but if she batted her eyelashes one too many times or interrupted Robin's work with soft kisses to the back of her neck, Robin could absolutely be persuaded to make her something to eat or go on a walk with her. She's a pushover like that.

Her brush longs for the red as she picks up some skin toned highlight to pull across the tip of Painting Nancy's nose, but she forces herself to continue with her color scheme and blend a bit of orange into it. The orange follows guidelines Robin didn't even know were there, and pulls her up through her forehead, down along the contouring of her cheeks, and begins her lips. Robin mixes an almost blood orange with highlights of red, and begins to paint her second favorite feature of Nancy's face.

She thinks about their first kiss. It was their second date, which, much like the first, Robin can't really remember now, but she _does_ remember the end. Robin had playfully said, "Walk me to my bike?" to which Nancy answered, "Why, of course."

She'd debated all night whether to do _it_, wondering if Nancy's thing was no kissing until a certain date, or just no kissing on the first one. She'd stood there fiddling with her hands in her pockets trying to figure out what to say, when Nancy had just let out an exasperated sigh, and wrapped her arms around her neck. She froze for approximately five seconds, then loosened up, and allowed her own hands to find their way onto Nancy's waist. 

"Can I kiss you?" Nancy murmured, already leaning in. Robin was mentally kicking herself for not doing it on her own when their lips met.

It wasn't fireworks. It wasn't bells and whistles. It didn't shake Robin off of her feet or knock the breath out of her. It was soft swirls of color behind closed eye lids, like the sunset they'd watched that evening, but gentler. It was experimental, figuring out how the other person moves, and figuring out that it was the best kiss she's ever head. She paints the way every kiss feels like the first, leaving her wide-eyed and dizzy, but feet confidently on the ground.

It's just a painting, but it's also a photo album of memories.

She paints all the kisses they've shared. Quick pecks before work in the morning, long, slow early Sunday mornings, and all the things they've said to each other without having to use words. She paints the words the bad jokes at 2 AM, the sweet nothings as they drift off to sleep, the angry frustrations during a fight, and the soft apologies that inevitably follow. She paints every time they've said "I love you" and every time she didn't have to say it for her to know.

And then the red blends back into skin tone and back into swirls of orange, and adds another layer over the bridge of Painting Nancy's nose, all the way up to her eyes. Robin has already swept the first beginnings of eyebrows on, and picks up a clean brush to start Nancy's eyes, which are unquestionably Robin's kryptonite. 

She'd been working another early shift at Red Berry, steaming milk pulling shots, and building drinks for the morning rush. After the stream of people off to their nine to five jobs trickled off, she'd gotten a ticket with the name _Nancy_ on it. Nancy had ordered a latte macchiato, short pull, with whole milk. She snagged a pitcher off the rack and set it steaming, smacking the handle against her grounds bucket and pulling a new shot.

She'd just finished pouring the milk and dumping the shot through it when she noticed Nancy was already waiting at the bar. "You know," she said, "you don't have to order your macchiato short pull. That's just how it's supposed to --" And then she made the mistake of looking up and into the eyes of her customer. She didn't even trail off, she just stopped talking. Nancy's eyes were the most striking blue she had ever, and still has ever, seen. Tired from an early morning, but somehow managed to hold a twinkle.

"Sorry?" Nancy had said, dumping a sugar in. She looked up, eyebrows furrowed.

Robin's breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed harshly. "Um," she repeated dumbly, "I was going to say that that's how we're supposed to make it. All macchiatos are short pull by default."   


"Starbucks would say otherwise," Nancy said with a playful little smile.

Robin chuckled, flipping the switch to run some water onto her transfer pitcher. Her fingers were already itching to paint Nancy's eyes, and she knew she'd be able to spend forever trying to figure out all the different flecks and shadows and colors. Already, she began mixing paints in her mind and blending different shades on a canvas. She had just finished building her base, when Nancy turned, cutting off her eyesight, tossed her wooden stirrer in the trash, and headed out the door. 

She turned around just before her second foot made it out, and tossed Robin a wink and a, "Thanks for the coffee. Best I ever had." 

It's just a painting, but it's also moments she only remembers through bright eyes and subtle variations of blue. 

Robin's never been good with words. She figures that's why she became an artist. So she holds her palette with about fifty different kinds of blues on it, and lets her brush do the talking, as always. A dab of light blue is the first time Nancy ever saw snow. A streak of a navy so dark it's almost black is the time they fought so horribly Robin almost thought that was the end. The slash is words that hurt just because they came from her, soothed by a cloud of a gentler blue, one framed with tears and apologies.

She lets her brush show summertime brightness and autumn chills. She lets her paint explain the emotions Nancy leaves in her eyes every second of the day like an open book, if only someone were to take the time to read it. She flicks and scribbles the silent "I love you" that screamed through Nancy's eyes six months into their relationship, and she gently frames the time she said it out loud, with a racing heart and shaky thoughts. 

And then she's building hair. It's a soft brown that layers into dark blues to blend in with the background and give it some shape. She paints how it feels to wake up in the morning with Nancy tucked into her chest. She paints what it's like to press a soft kiss into the top of Nancy's head every time they wake up and every time they go to sleep. She paints the way she braids Nancy's hair absentmindedly as they curl up onto the couch at night to watch TV, and the way the smell of her shampoo calms her immediately.

She paints the time Nancy had decided she'd save money and cut her own hair, which lead to an even bigger bill so the hairdresser could fix it. She paints how upset Nancy was when the stylist had apologetically told her she'd probably have to wear a bob, and she paints Robin's gentle squeeze of the hand and soft kiss to Nancy's palm to keep her from yelling at the guy. She paints how she'd breathed, "See? I can still grab it" into the sweaty tangle of their bodies that evening.

And then it's done. She signs her name at the bottom, and tosses down her last brush. She refuses to think about cleaning up or showering or getting the paint out of her hair right now before it dries into a crusty mess that will have to be soaked in paint thinner or cut out. She refuses to think about the fact that this is now a finished piece of art that she's going to have to actually give to somebody. 

She just pulls Nancy over to her and presses herself against her back. Her chin rests on Nancy's shoulder. "What do you think?"

"I think I want to kiss you," Nancy says. She suffices by pressing her lips against the corner of Robin's mouth, the only place she can reach from her angle. "I think it's perfect, and I think my parents are going to love it."

"I think _I _love _you_," Robin murmurs. 

It's just a painting.

But it's also so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> my next fic is kind of angsty so i figured id give you guys a little fluff after two long ass one shots of sadness. as always, hope you liked it!!
> 
> \-- emily / kaitlyndevr on tumblr
> 
> ps check out the piece that inspired this piece https://www.artranked.com/topic/Contemporary+Portrait#&gid=1&pid=4


End file.
